


Don’t Cry Over Spilt Cocoa

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky and the No-Good Terrible Very Bad Day, Bucky is a wimp about his coffee, Clint Barton is a Temp, Clint Can't Read Sharpie Messages Not to Eat People's Snacks in the Break Room, Flirting, Fluff, He Just Ignores Them, Human Disaster Clint Barton, M/M, Meet-Cute, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Natasha's Barton Repair Kit, Office AU, Starbucks Drinks, Tumblr Prompt, You dumped your drink on me by accident AU, pop tarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 14:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16834720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: Bucky didn’t think anything else could go wrong with his morning.But then, it went oh-so-right.





	Don’t Cry Over Spilt Cocoa

**Author's Note:**

> I borrowed a cute Winter Writing Prompt from Tumblr: 04. i’m running late to an important interview/meeting and you accidentally spill your hot cocoa all over my outfit.

“Keys, keys, keys, where’re my keys…” Bucky chanted under his breath, patting his pants pockets and rifling through the piles of junk mail on the kitchen and coffee tables. He scanned the room, yanking the cell phone charger from the tiny port and cramming the phone into his carrier bag. Bucky felt like he was batting a thousand already, and he hadn’t even left his apartment yet. “What else am I forgetting?” he muttered. “Fuck…”

He made one last pass through the kitchen and found his keys sitting on top of his tupperware container, right where he left it. “Resumes. Pen. Day runner. Shit,” he chanted as he rounded up the last few items that he needed for his interview.

He eyed himself in the mirror, satisfied for the moment with the black, flat-front slacks. Hs discovered the tiny stain on his pleated gray ones only after he ironed sharp creases into them and actually put them on. The black ones were perfectly suitable, but Bucky was tired of them already. Every time he went on an interview, he told himself that once he got the job that would allow him a little extra money after his bills were paid, he could buy some decent work clothes. Bucky gave up hope of a trip to Kohls about five interviews ago. The soft gray buttondown managed to make his eyes look bluer, which surprised him. Bucky was slightly overdue for a haircut; the back of it brushed his collar, and it took a little more product to work up some volume in the front above his brow. Bucky cursed his too-late retreat to his bed last night when he overslept by twenty minutes, leaving him no time for breakfast. His eyes snapped open wide once he drifted awake and the red digital display on his alarm clock swam into view. Didn’t help that he’d _forgotten to actually set it._

Sam left him the last cup of coffee in the pot before he left for the school. Bucky poured himself a cup and stirred in a generous helping of sugar before he opened the refrigerator door. 

No milk.

“Eeeerrgggghhh… FUCK.”

Okay. Fine. 

Bucky dumped the coffee into a commuter cup anyway and screwed on the lid. Maybe the office he was interviewing with would offer him coffee. Wishful thinking.

Bucky hurried out the door, dodging his chatty neighbor before she could fill his ear about her cat’s latest shenanigans. He stumbled a little as he reached the stair landing and jarred his ankle that he’d previously sprained in high school, making it throb freshly and limp a little toward his apartment building’s front door.

“Careful there, Twinkle Toes!” Of course that was Brock. _Dick._ He waved cheerfully at Bucky as he locked up his apartment, looking all smug in his mechanic’s coveralls. Brock made twice what Bucky did and he never had to iron his work clothes. Bucky hated him just on principle.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky muttered. 

“Have a nice trip?”

“Only one I can afford on my salary.”

“Bet you majored in an artsy field, huh?”

“Later, man.”

And he was off. The sky overhead was saved from complete gloom by sparse patches of blue sky, but the weather report promised sleet later that afternoon. Bucky dodged graying clumps of dirty snow and icy puddles, weaving through foot traffic on his way to the subway. He sipped his coffee and grimaced; it was wretched without milk.

Bucky made it through the crowd, pushing his way through the turnstile and grabbing his fare card, which cheerfully informed him was worth about three cents when he extracted it from the slot. The other passengers jostled him in a slow-moving tide of winter coats and briefcases as he rode the escalator downstairs to the platform. Bucky caught the train as it filled to capacity and ended up sharing a pole with a girl who blasted Taylor Swift through her earbuds and whose leather jacket covered with tiny studs and spikes kept poking against him every time the car went around a sharp turn on the track. She smirked up at him and cracked her cinnamon gum in his face, completely unfazed. Bucky gave her a bland smile, inwardly wishing for a place to hide. The universe laughed at him.

The air above the street tasted like engine exhaust and freedom. Bucky’s work building loomed six blocks ahead, ten stories of mirror-bright glass and concrete. Bucky’s heel skidded a little on a slick patch of pavement; he needed to get the shoe re-heeled or toss them into the thrift bag soon. Neither option appealed to him; they were his favorite pair of work shoes.

Bucky waited at the crosswalk through a long green light, sipping at his unsatisfactory coffee. His stomach churned a little, complaining at the injection of acidic, caffeinated liquid while it was still empty. Bucky knew he still had a crumbling Pop Tart hidden in a cupboard in the work break room with his name Sharpie’d on the side waiting for him if he could just _get there_ \- 

The wave of icy water splashed up loudly and drenched his shoes and pants cuffs, and Bucky swore and rocked back on his heels. The tiny blue hybrid coupe didn’t slow down or even acknowledge him as he blew through the intersection. Bucky glared after him and flipped him the bird. 

Bucky’s pants legs clung to his ankles as he entered the elevator, already done with that day. Scott rushed into it with him before the doors could close and grinned at him, punching the button for the fourth floor. He clapped Bucky on the shoulder. “Happy Monday,” he announced.

“Isn’t that overstating things a little?”

“Already havin’ one of those days, huh?”

“Waking up was a little too ambitious this morning.”

“You made it. You showed up. Give yourself a pat on the back. Hey, what time’s that interview you’re having today again?”

“Nine-fifteen.”

“Shit. How far across town is it again?”

“Luckily just a few blocks. Gives me just enough time to check my emails and dry off.” Scott looked confused until Bucky gestured down to his pants.

“Aw, dude. That sucks.”

“My feet feel like ice cubes.”

“It’ll get better. Hey, good luck.” Scott clapped his shoulder in his brief, warm grip and got off on his own floor while Bucky rode up the rest of the way to seventh. When the doors opened, though, Bucky sighed at the sight of the yellow tape cordoning off the corridor leading to his cubicle. “Floors Being Waxed. Take Back Hallway.” Because _of course._ Bucky hit the button for floor six, exited and made his way toward the side stairwell, which would at least bring him to the other side of the main processing floor. The stairwell felt drafty, and Bucky juggled his lunch container, carrier bag as the strap kept slipping down from his shoulder, and his coffee cup as he tugged himself up by the stair railing.

By the time he finally set everything down at his desk, he was three minutes late clocking in. Tony stopped by his doorway and knocked on the frame of the cubicle wall to get his attention.

“Don’t forget the staff meeting in the west conference room.”

Bucky’s Pop Tart would have to wait. “Sure. Be there in a sec.”

Which meant that there was a handout that Bucky would have to print in his email first, and this day just kept getting better and better. Bucky found the message with attachments and printed the agenda and handouts, only to find that they’d been scooped up at the multifunction laser jet.

“Anyone have my printouts?” he called around futilely.

A few of his coworkers shook their heads, and Bucky fumed as he went back to print them again. “Why, Lord?” His tone was low enough and bleak enough that no one else answered him. But the universe still wasn’t finished with Bucky. 

As Bucky strode back toward the printer, a tall, sandy blond in rumpled khakis and a purple argyle sweater backed out of his cubicle, and before Bucky could avoid him, he spun around and crashed into Bucky. This time, _hot_ liquid splashed down Bucky’s chest, drenching his buttondown.

“ _Fuck_... aw, cocoa, no!” he cried out as the faulty plastic lid flipped off of his cup and landed on the floor. Bucky stumbled back, holding his now-damp copies out from his body. He gave him a look of disbelief.

“Seriously?!”

“Buddy, I’m _so_ sorry! Aw, that shirt looked nice! Shoot. Shoot, shoot, shoot… let me help you. I’ll fix this. God, this morning isn’t panning out how I planned it.”

“Buddy, you’re preaching to the choir.”

He was taller than Bucky and had soft blue eyes staring out from a boyish face. He looked embarrassed, but his lips quirked in a lopsided smile at Bucky’s claim.

“Yeah, well. I got lost on my way here. I’m a temp. This is my first day. This probably looks bad. Please don’t fire me. You’re not gonna fire me, are you?” He was already ducking back into the cubicle and came back with a box of Kleenex, and he yanked a few out of the slot and began daubing at Bucky’s damp shirt. Bucky felt his cheeks flush at the contact and at the man’s temerity, but he found his irritation flagging, because maybe this guy was having just as much of a shit day. 

Dimly, Bucky realized, _Cocoa sounds good right about now. And a blanket, fuzzy pajamas and Netflix on the couch._

And this guy looked like just the kind of guy Bucky would normally want to share it with. 

“You’re rubbing it in. That’s probably gonna make it a little worse,” Bucky mentioned, but he smiled back anyway. The guy was still rubbing at the stains, gripping Bucky’s shoulder like he was an elementary schooler to hold him still. 

“Shit… you’re probably right. Okay. I’ll just stop. I’m sorry. Seriously. That was a nice shirt. You look like you were dressed up for something important.” The guy tossed the damp tissues into the trash and threw up his hands in dismay.

“Interview in less than an hour.” Bucky gave him a shrug. He didn’t want to make the guy feel worse, but there was no point in lying. “Hey. I’m gonna head to my meeting. I’m already gonna end up with the worst seat. No hard feelings, okay?”

“You sure… okay. Okay, you’re right, never mind. Just. _Shit._ ” He rubbed his nape and sighed. “I wrecked your whole look.”

“Desperate and broke but still trying,” Bucky summarized. “That was my look, in a nutshell.”

Okay. That made Tall, Blond and Adorkable laugh and nod. 

“You make it work. You do.”

“Thanks?”

“Maybe better without the chocolate stains.”

“I’m gonna head to my meeting.”

“Good luck with that. And. Y’know. With your other thing today. Seriously, do you have anything else to change into?”

“I don’t, no.”

The guy winced and blew out a loud breath of frustration through his nose. 

“Wish I had more time to talk… Clint.”

“How’d you know my name?”

“Hello, My Name is Clint,” Bucky told him as he read the red and white temporary name sticker on his sweater. The guys in the mail room called them “loser badges” because management made you wear one if you forgot your permanent one and made you sign in at the front desk. It stood out against and clashed with his purple sweater and pronounced him a noob. Clint was strikingly tall and broad-shouldered, but he had the faintly slouchy posture of someone who towered over everybody else and felt incongruous in his surroundings.

“Right. Right. Anyway, uh. I’ll let you get going. I’ll… get back to work. Hey, I’m sorry, though, okay?”

“Sorry about your cocoa.”

Clint chuckled under his breath and shook his head, and Bucky rushed off. He smelled like a candy factory.

Bucky wandered inside the conference room as quietly as he could, taking the last seat at the table, and of course it was the one with the janky, too-short leg that rocked every time you shifted your weight.

“Care to give us an update on your progress, Barnes?” Tony asked as he paused the PowerPoint presentation.

Bucky saw the hard little gleam in his eyes. _Interrupt my meeting, you get to sit in the hot seat._

“I can wait.”

*

Bucky sat through what felt like the longest twenty minutes of his life in the meeting, gave his team a progress update in his stained shirt, and beat feet back to the break room for his snack break. Bucky yanked open the cupboards, searching for the Pop Tart box.

Mostly empty Chicken on a Biscuit cracker box. An old Cup O’Noodles. One sad, almost empty sleeve of Ritz crackers. A few packets of instant oatmeal. No Pop Tarts.

“What the _hell_.” His eyes scanned the room, and he found Clint leaning over the garbage can, cramming the last of a suspicious looking pastry into his mouth, letting the crumbs drop into the trash before he chucked the foil wrapper.

“Please tell me you didn’t just eat that,” Bucky groaned.

Clint turned and paused, and his eyes grew wide. “Oops. Shit. Was that yours?”

Bucky threw up his hands. “Really?”

“I am _so_ sorry.”

“You’re making my day harder than it needs to be, pal.”

“Okay. This wasn’t the impression I wanted to make at all. I can make this up to you. I _swear._ ”

“No. Don’t put yourself out.”

“I’ll write you an IOU. For that and your dry cleaning bill.”

Bucky sighed, shaking his head. “Buddy…”

“Please don’t be mad.”

Clint’s voice was soft and pleading.

Bucky sighed again and shrugged. “This day hasn’t exactly been ideal. I kinda look like hell warmed over right now, and I have an interview in a half an hour.”

Clint winced.

“You’ve. You’ve got a crumb.”

“Huh?”

“On the corner of your… here.” Bucky reached out and plucked the Pop Tart crumb from the edge of Clint’s pink lips. They were nice. He looked sheepish again, and Bucky snatched his hand away once he realized what he’d done.

“Thanks for, uh. Getting that.”

“No worries. Wouldn’t want you to have to walk around with that all day.” The unspoken sentiment of _You wouldn’t have to worry about it if you hadn’t eaten my Pop Tart_ lingered between them. 

Bucky left before things could deteriorate any further.

Bucky went back to his desk and tried to salvage the rest of his day. He went through the rest of his emails and headed to the bathroom to make an effort at cleaning his shirt with the crappy hand soap at the sink. It barely put a dent in the stain, and now it was wet. _Great._ Maybe he wouldn’t have to take his jacket off…

A few minutes before he was due to meet his Lyft, Bucky headed for the elevator, but before the doors could close, a large, beefy hand blocked them, and Clint hurried onto it with him.

“Hey. Glad I caught you. Bucky, right? That’s what it said on the box.”

Bucky huffed. “The box that you ate the last Pop Tart out of, anyway.”

“Yeah. Anyhoo. I called my roommate. She’s pretty great, and she bails me out of my fuckups a lot. Like, _a lot_. She’s meeting me downstairs in a minute, and I was hoping you could stick around at least that long.” The elevator lurched a little as it stopped on each floor.

“I really can’t.”

“Please? Please, just let me do this. Let me make it up to you. I wrecked your day _twice_.”

“You didn’t _wreck_ it. Just… threw a teeny wrench into it. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“No, no, nooooooo! Awww! Don’t try to make me feel better. I messed it up. I messed up your shirt, and I ate your breakfast.”

Bucky gave him a shrugging nod. “Kinda did.”

“I can make this better. Trust me. Okay? Just trust me.”

“I just don’t have a lot of time. Look, I appreciate the sentiment, and you’re a nice guy-”

“I’m trying to be, buddy. I mean, Bucky. Bucky, Bucky… that’s a fun name, y’know that?”

“I just can’t be late on top of everything else.”

“How long til your ride gets here?”

Bucky glanced down at his phone as the elevator reached the ground floor. “Five minutes.”

“We might be fine, then.” Clint followed Bucky outside, even though he didn’t have a coat on.

“Clint, it’s cold as balls out here!”

“M’okay.” Even though Bucky watched him shiver as they walked outside and first real draft of cold air hit them. “Oh, yeah, here we go…” His blue eyes flitted away from Bucky, in the general direction of a car that was tearing up to the curb. It was a red Fiat Spider, and its owner pulled the sharpest parallel parking job Bucky had ever seen before hopping out. She was a tiny redhead dressed in all black. She eyed Clint accusingly.

“Is this the guy?” she demanded.

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re a menace. I can’t leave you unsupervised. Hey. I’m Natasha. I’m this guy’s roommate, and I’ve come to help you out and undo his damage.”

“Excuse me?”

“Look, give me a minute. Call your ride and tell them you need a little delay. Come with me.” She wrenched open the back seat of her car and reached into it for a plastic shopping bag. 

Clint grinned at her. “I knew you’d come through.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Barton.”

“Eh. Guy’s gotta try.”

“I’ve really got to… okay, where are we going?” Natasha grabbed Bucky by the arm, spun him around, and dragged him back into the building with surprising strength for someone so petite.

“Clint said he spilled his drink on you. I have one of his shirts here, all nice and pressed, and one of the ties he never wears, even though i keep telling him to dress for the job he wants.”

“I want to be retired,” Clint told her. “Tell me how to dress for that.”

He was hurrying after them, and Bucky wondered how his morning had changed directions so abruptly.

“You don’t have to - okay, this is the men’s.”

“What are they going to do, press charges? Am I trying to pee standing up?” she challenged. Nat shoved the plastic bag at Clint and reached for Bucky’s coat, prying open the buttons. Bucky was breathless with shock as she yanked it down his arms and laid it on the counter and began to unfasten the ones on his shirt.

“If these were any other circumstances, I’d find this a turn-on,” Bucky murmured. “But you scare me a little.”

“She does that,” Clint admitted. “But she gets shit done.”

“Untuck that. Take that off. Good, it didn’t soak all the way through.” Bucky’s undershirt had the faint hint of the stain, but not darkly enough to show through the charcoal gray shirt she had Clint pull out of the bag. It was a nice shirt with a silky finish and tortoiseshell buttons. “It shouldn’t be too baggy. Maybe a little loose around the collar. We’ll just tuck it way in. The tie should help.” She stepped around Bucky and made him thread his arms through the sleeves, pulling it up onto him like a jacket.

“Wow,” Bucky muttered.

“Right?” Clint muttered back. “Here’s the tie.” Natasha had already knotted it loosely, so that all Bucky had to do was pull it on over his head. He fiddled with the buttons on the shirt while she looped it over the collar. She moved efficiently, and within seconds, Bucky was redressed, with Nat shaking his coat impatiently at him.

“Put this on. Button up, or you’ll freeze your tits off.”

“I’m gonna miss my ride!” Bucky’s phone beeped accusingly, backing up this claim.

“No, you won’t. Go. Hurry! I’d give you a ride myself, but I have to get back home to my laptop before I get more calls in the queue. I’m on break, but _some_ genius wasn’t watching where he was going.”

“I love you,” Clint offered.

“Yeah, yeah. Quit trying to butter me up.”

Clint leaned down and kissed Natasha’s nose. Bucky rushed out of the men’s with his carrier bag. The shirt was a little loose on him, but it was soft and warm, and most importantly, didn’t stink of spilled cocoa.

Bucky spotted his Lyft waiting at the corner, and he waved at the driver, who looked bored and unimpressed. Bucky waved back at Clint and Natasha.

“Thanks,” he called back. “I kinda owe you both one.”

“Not really. You’re still welcome. Sorry I suck,” Clint called back, waving and giving Bucky a thumbs-up. “Good luck!”

As Bucky rode off, Natasha punched Clint in the shoulder.

“Ow,” he muttered, rubbing it.

“You’re a doofus.”

“Thanks for coming through.”

“Someone has to save you from yourself.” But her eyes were dancing. “You like him, don’t you?”

“What? I almost fucked up his day. I was just trying to fix it.”

“You put out an SOS this early in the day for a guy you just met? Please. I can tell, you have a crush on this guy.”

“I still owe him. I ate his snack stash, too.”

“I can’t take you anywhere. Honestly.”

*

Bucky sailed back into the office, bubbling with excitement and feeling thirty percent more relaxed than he had when he first clocked in. He munched on the small bag of Sun Chips he’d picked up from the convenience store on his way back from the interview, not caring now if he had orangey dust on his fingers, because he had no one left to impress.

_You’ve got the skills we’re looking for. How flexible are you with your schedule?_ Those words were music to Bucky’s ears. His inbox overflowed with memos and printouts when he returned to his desk, but he didn’t care.

He glanced around the cubicle farm but couldn’t find Clint. Bucky squelched his disappointment and went back to work. He fiddled with the end of the borrowed necktie, musing.

Bucky went to his afternoon meeting, this time better prepared and less sticky. When he returned, he saw a white, rectangular box with a yellow Post-It stuck to the top sitting on his inbox.

Strawberry frosted Pop Tarts. And a hastily scribbled apology.

_Hey. I’m sorry. I owe you. Keep the shirt, if you want._

Bucky grinned to himself as he opened the box. He saved the note, sticking it to the lower edge of his monitor. _Okay_. 

Okay, then.

*

Clint signed in at the front desk and had the secretary sign his timecard for the temp agency before he hustled his way onto the elevator. His cheek sported a Sesame Street band-aid from a shaving cut, because he’d nicked himself pretty good, and the rest of his morning wasn’t looking much better at the moment. Clint overslept and managed to lose his fare card, making him lose precious minutes buying a new one. Clint kissed his morning Starbucks fix goodbye.

“You came back,” Scott greeted him, holding open his arms in greeting.

Clint made a dismissive gesture. “I will until they tell me to stop. That’s how being a temp works.”

“One day, maybe they’ll turn you into a real boy.”

“What? And give up my carefree lifestyle?” he joked. Even though Nat was about ready to kill him if he didn’t get something permanent soon. 

Being laid off sucked. Having his health insurance term sucked. Wondering where his next electric bill payment and rent payment would come from sucked. Clint hated living in constant limbo. Being a temp felt like constantly going to auditions and well-scripted _begging_. By the time he finished a three-month assignment, knew where all the copiers, conference rooms and rest rooms were, it was time to leave. Clint’s resume kept getting longer, but he felt less marketable because of the lack of longevity. 

Being dispensable took a lot out of a guy, y’know?

Clint wandered over to his cubicle, sighing at the sight of the paper name plaque sitting on the edge of his door frame. Then he paused in his tracks, blinking at the grande-sized Starbucks cup on his desk. The scent of chocolate tickled his nostrils.

“What…?” A grin felt like it split his face in half. Clint picked it up and noticed it was still warm and fresh. “Somebody likes me,” he murmured.

“Can’t imagine who.” The voice was deep, amused and familiar. Clint turned and smiled at the source. Bucky smirked back, hands tucked in his pockets. He leaned against Clint’s door frame and nodded at the cup.

“You paid me back. Thought occurred to me that I owed you a drink.”

“You really _didn’t._ ” But Clint took a sip and moaned in appreciation. “Shit. That’s delicious. What is this?”

“The Ebony Hot Chocolate. It’s seasonal. That’s chocolate whip on top.”

“Oh, my God, I want to marry it. It’s fantastic.”

Bucky shoved himself off the edge of the frame and backed his way out of the cubicle. “Hey. Thanks. For yesterday. For what you and your roommate did.”

“Wouldn’t have needed to do it if I’d been watching where I was going.”

“Just say ‘You’re welcome, Bucky.’”

Clint’s nose scrunched as he chuckled. He was too cute for Bucky’s own good, and Bucky’s stomach dipped in response. 

“I made a decent impression at my interview. It went well.”

“Shoot. Maybe I need that shirt and tie back from you, after all. Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

“I don’t mind giving it back, if you don’t mind picking it up.”

“From where?”

Bucky shrugged. “My place?”

Clint’s blue eyes twinkled over the edge of the cup as he took another sip. “I’m new here and just figured out the directions to _this_ office.”

“It’s not too far from here. Wouldn’t even need a temporary name tag.”

“But this one’s so spiffy looking,” Clint argued, tapping the red and white sticker on his chest that was already curling a little around the corners. 

“I’m here til five-thirty if you want directions. And a refill on that cocoa.”

*

Bucky rubbed the kinks out of his neck several hours later and glanced out the window across the way from his cube, noticing it had already grown dark and a light snow began to flutter down, sticking to the glass. Bucky wanted his fuzzy blanket and his Netflix queue, and his leftovers from Olive Garden were calling his name. 

“Hey.” 

There was Clint, with that faint Jersey burr in his voice, wearing a heavy, fleece-lined leather jacket that he looked sharp in. 

“I might have to borrow that jacket, too. It’s nice.”

“Give me the shirt back, first, then.”

“Come and get it.”

“I need directions.”

“I’m no good at giving directions. Guess you’ll just have to come with me.”

Clint grinned and backed out of the cubicle, gesturing for Bucky to precede him out. Bucky clicked off his terminal, grabbed his commuter bag and coat, and bumped Clint’s shoulder companionably with his. His cheeks felt warm and his chest was fluttering with anticipation. 

“Is this trip to your place to get my stuff gonna include dinner?”

“It might. It might also include pajamas. And I might have some in just your size.”


End file.
